


Bright Morning

by ZionAngel



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Smut, smutty smutty Rumbelle smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 22:28:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZionAngel/pseuds/ZionAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izzy Gold wakes up her first morning as a married woman, and decides to get to know her new husband a little more intimately.</p><p>Based on Bad Faery's "All the Bright Pieces."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [Bad_Faery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bad_Faery/pseuds/Bad_Faery). Log in to view. 



> This is a fic-ception of Bad-Faery's fic. I started it weeks ago and decided I should hurry up and finish it as a (late) birthday present for her. Happy birthday, Dearie! (Proofreading? What's that?)
> 
> All you need to know about the original story to understand this fic, is that Belle, who doesn't have her memories back, married Mr. Gold in part to pay off her father's large debt (and in part because she wanted to). They had a very small ceremony and a very nice first night together, however Gold insisted on taking the lead...

Izzy wakes slowly on Sunday, her first morning as a married woman.

The bed is warm and soft, and the plush comforter is bunched up around her neck.  She blinks, letting her eyes adjust to the dim morning light, and pushes down the blankets enough to see her husband beside her.  Mr. Gold – _Anthony_ , Anthony, she reminds herself – is still sound asleep, looking wholly content and more at peace than she has ever seen him.  Izzy smiles at the sight, and just watches him for a while, letting herself get used to the feel of being a wife.

Since deciding to accept his rather sudden proposal, she had no reservations about marrying him, never second-guessed her decision.  Now, though, she is happier than ever that she accepted.  This is a good thing.  He’ll be good for her, good _to_ her, and she’ll do her very best to be good for him as well, broken though she is.  She’s going to be happy like this.  She already _is_ happy like this.  Not just content, but genuinely, truly happy.

Eventually, she stretches and crawls out of bed, careful not to wake him.  She only realizes that she’s still naked when the cooler air hits her skin and makes her shiver.  She hurries over to his dresser – _their_ dresser – and pulls out pajamas.  With a quick smile at him over her shoulder, she closes the door quietly behind her and leaves him to sleep.

She uses the downstairs bathroom, and runs her fingers through her messy hair.  As she sets a kettle on the stove and waits for the water to boil, she wanders around the kitchen and dining room, staring at the countless little treasures filling every inch of his house.  It still doesn’t quite feel like home to her yet, but she does feel welcome.  She hopes the rest will come in time.

As she finds the tea and lets it steep in her cup, she remembers her promise to her father to call him today.  It’s midmorning now, and on a Sunday, he’ll no doubt be sitting at the table with his coffee, reading the morning paper.  Or rather, given his demeanor at her wedding yesterday, he’s probably sitting there with the paper still folded, his coffee untouched and cold, moping.  She sighs.  She adores her father, but she does so wish he could have enough faith in her to trust her judgment, to at least believe her when she says she’s happy to be married.  As she adds milk to her tea, she decides that it won’t do to put off her promised call – he’ll just spend the day moping around, and she’ll just worry about making the call as the day goes on.  Best to reassure him of her happiness now and get it over with.

She finds the phone on a desk in the den, and she sits with her tea, and dials.

It takes longer than usual for him to answer the phone, and when he does, he sounds as though he’s sitting beside her death bed.  She does her best to reassure him, tells him in her sweetest voice what a lovely afternoon she had with her new husband, how he made a lovely dinner for the two of them, how he showed her around and made her feel welcome.  Her father responds with platitudes and monosyllabic answers, and does not sound the least bit convinced that his daughter has not made a deal with the devil.  Still, Izzy tries her best.

Eventually, she turns enough to see her new husband peeking his head around the doorframe, watching her.  He’s staring at her with something that looks like longing, and suddenly she recognizes that gaze from so many afternoon conversations when they were not-dating.  She smiles brightly at him, and nods toward the couch for him to wait.  He disappears, and returns a few moments later with tea of his own.

She finishes up her call with her father, and he seems no more reassured than before she called.  She tells herself that he’ll do better with time, and promises to come visit him at the shop within the next few days.  She tells him she loves him with nothing but sincerity, and when he says it back, it’s the first time he doesn’t sound completely miserable.

She hangs up with a deep sigh, and turns to her husband with a strained smile.

“Your father not adjusting well, I take it?” he asks from the couch.  His bad leg is perched on the coffee table.

“He’ll learn to live with it eventually,” she answers hopefully, standing up and taking her tea to join him.  “It’ll just take time, I think.”  She takes him in as she crosses the room.  He’s wearing pajamas as well, a cotton t-shirt and loose flannel pants that somehow look as expensive and luxurious as any of his suits.  He’s shaved, she notices, brushed his hair and teeth, made himself look nice for her even though it’s only a groggy Sunday morning.  She feels happy and flattered that he would go through the trouble for her, and simultaneously feels like a horribly underdressed slob, wearing the same heart-patterned PJ pants she had in high school, and a plain, oversized shirt, her hair a mess and her teeth unbrushed.

But then he smiles at her like she’s a goddess or a supermodel or a woman out of a renaissance painting, like he’s the happiest man in all the world, and she doesn’t feel quite so self-conscious anymore.

Izzy sits on the coffee table across from him, and doesn’t even realize it until it’s done.  She’s not sure why she didn’t just sit beside him on the couch, but as she takes a sip of her tea, she finds that she doesn’t want to move.  There is something familiar about this, sitting on a table across from him.  She can’t pinpoint it, but it seems completely natural and right.  She gives him a warm smile, and he returns it.

She sips her tea, and rests her hand on his outstretched leg, just above the knee.  “Is your leg bothering you?”

“Not particularly,” he says, and she doesn’t like that it isn’t a ‘no.’  “Just a bit stiff.  Unusual physical exertions tend to do that.”  He raises an eyebrow slightly at her puzzled look, and she feels a deep blush spread over her cheeks.  He chuckles faintly.  “Don’t worry love.  The joint will get used to it soon enough.”

She smiles at that, at runs her fingers lightly over his knee until her hand rests just below it.  She’s always wondered what happened to him, but never asked about it for fear of being rude or intrusive.  But that was when they were still not-dating.  He’s her husband now, and his health and well-being are her business.  At the very least, she figures that at least gives her the right to ask about it.

“How did you hurt it, anyway?”

Something flickers in his eyes, and for half a second she thinks she’s crossed a line and he won’t answer.  But just as quickly it’s gone.  “I had a car accident quite a long time ago.  Medical care at the time wasn’t quite what it is today.”

The answer sounds honest enough, but somehow it doesn’t sit quite right with Izzy.  She brushes the thought away, dismisses it as a lingering symptom of her mental state.  “How bad is it, exactly?  I mean… does it hurt?  Does it keep you from doing things?”  The possibility of her husband being in constant pain makes her stomach twist with worry.

“Not really,” he says, shaking his head.  “It gets a bit sore, but so long as I don’t strain it too badly and I’m careful, it rarely actually hurts.  Truth be told, I really should be giving it gentle exercise and stretching on a regular basis.”  He shoots her a hungry, almost predatory look, and this time it doesn’t take her quite so long to realize the meaning behind it, and she feels her cheeks flush pink again.

She takes a sip of her tea as she lets her face cool.  She feels suddenly very happy that he’s sharing himself with her, letting her see the man beneath the sharp suits (so to speak) and the intimidating façade the rest of the world sees.  She’s already shared so much of herself with him, mostly during their long talks before he finally asked her out properly, but he’s always been so reserved.  It feels good to have him open up to her now, and let her in.

They sip their tea for a few moments in a comfortable silence.  As she thinks on it, she realizes that even with all that they did and shared last night, she never got a good look at her new husband, wasn’t able to familiarize herself with his body the way he was with hers.  She bites her lip nervously, glancing at him.  She felt him inside of her, which had been amazing and wonderful, but she didn’t have a chance to truly look and examine and learn his body, to get to know him the way she wanted to.  All she was able to see was his bare chest and arms, the way his lean muscles moved beneath his skin, but nothing more.  In spite of all they had done last night, and how wonderful it had been, the thought of doing more now, being the one to initiate sends a rush of shyness over her that nearly overwhelms her.  For a few moments, she almost lets the fear win, almost decides to wait until he makes the first move and try to get what she wants in the process.

But then, she always wanted to be brave, especially with the little things that matter most.  She’s done so much already to take her life and her fate back into her own hands – pressed to continue her tenuous relationship with Gold when he thought it a failure and would have let it go, married against her father’s wishes and everyone’s judgment, refused to let her new husband tell her what her motives had been out of self-doubt.  It hadn’t been easy, and it surely won’t be easy now, but she’ll be damned if she starts letting anyone else decide her fate now, least of all her own fears and doubts.

“Can I see it?” she asks, her voice soft and tentative, hoping he doesn’t take her request the wrong way.  She can’t quite interpret the look on his face – afraid or anxious or confused – before it is gone, and then he simply nods, and waits.  Izzy swallows away a nervous lump in her throat, and rolls up the leg of his pajamas, inch by inch, until it is midway up his thigh.  She doesn’t look at it until it is fully exposed, and she forces herself not to make any sounds when she sees it.

The kneecap isn’t quite where it should be, off by so little that she might not notice if it weren’t for the other signs.  Long, pink scars run up and down the length of the joint.  The scar tissue is smooth and a bit shiny, suggesting that they healed long ago.  She runs her fingers over his shin, just below the scars, not quite touching yet.  She shifts and lifts his leg, urging him to rest it on her lap, angled so she can see the back of the joint.  She bites her lip at the sight – it is even more badly scarred than the front, the scar tissue sinking into the muscles.  It seems highly unlikely that his knee isn’t a daily problem for him.

Her fingers stray up to the joint, trailing feather-light touches over the joint and the scars decorating it.  She only wants to explore, not to hurt.  “It really doesn’t hurt you?” she murmurs, wanting to know the truth.

“Sometimes the muscles can get stiff and a little sore.  I really should be giving it more gentle exercise and stretching.  But no, it doesn’t often turn into true pain.”

As he finishes speaking, Izzy realizes she has wrapped her hands around his leg, and her fingers are digging into his flesh, massaging the muscles.  Her first reaction is to stop, but she clings to that spark of bravery, and keeps touching.  He did, after all, promise that after their first time together, she would be free to touch and explore as she wanted.  He says nothing either, so she keeps going.  She is glad to be able to learn about her husband and start to get to know his body and his imperfections.  His knee is certainly nothing compared to her own madness, but it makes her feel better about being broken, knowing that her husband is a little broken, too.

They go on in a comfortable silence for long minutes.  Izzy gets so caught up in the feel of his skin beneath her fingers that she almost doesn’t hear his faint groan.  She does hear it though, and when she sees his face he looks like she’s torturing him.  She barely has a chance to wonder why before she notices that he’s hard.

Izzy immediately feels her face burn, and she stares at her hands on his knee, unable to meet his eyes.  She just breathes for a few moments, trying to decide what to do.  Her husband doesn’t seem inclined to force things – he certainly made it clear last night that he wouldn’t push her into anything she didn’t want, and she assumes that still stands now.  If he hasn’t done anything by now, he probably wants some indication that she wants to continue before he does anything.

As she thinks on it, though, she isn’t sure that she wants a repeat of last night, at least not at the moment.  She’s enjoying this, enjoying getting to know her husband’s body, and she wants to get to know more of him, all of him.  She imagines that will be rather difficult to do if she’s distracted by her own pleasure and whatever he does to her.  So, steeling herself, she decides on a different course of action.

She presses her fingertips more firmly into his flesh, gradually moving upwards with more intent than before.  Her fingers move past the scars and up his thigh until they slide beneath his bunched up pajama leg.  Her fingers move as far up as they can, and she traces delicate little patterns over his inner thigh.  He makes a strangled gasping noise, but he doesn’t move a muscle.  Izzy bites her lip to hide a smug grin.

She scoots forward on the table and removes her hands from his leg, and he whimpers in protest.  She finally manages to meet his eyes as she reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, and she finds them heavily lidded and nearly black.  The look he gives her, full of raw desire and lust and a wonderful, loving affection, makes her stutter for a moment, forget what she’s doing, but she manages to shake it off and pull his shirt up and over his head.  He goes along with her motions, moving only enough to get the shirt off.  His whole body seems tense like an animal waiting to attack – he looks like he wants to pounce on her, and it’s taking every fiber of his being to hold back.  Given what he told her last night, that’s probably exactly the case.

Her eyes dart away from his naked chest as a mere automatic response, and she feels herself blush again.  After a moment, she forces herself to look and keep moving forward with her plan.  This is her husband sitting in front of her – she’s allowed to look at him.  She’s allowed to drink in and enjoy the sight of his body.  So she drags her eyes over his torso, taking in the lean muscles and smooth skin she remembers from last night, and she smiles appreciatively.

Carefully, she lifts his leg from her lap and sets his foot back on the floor.  Slowly, forcing herself to meet his eyes, she slides her hands up his legs, just brushing his erection through the fabric, and hooks her fingers in his waistband.

His breath comes out harsh and ragged and fast, like he’s dying, and his hands are clenched into trembling fists to keep them still, to let her do as she pleases.  Clinging to her precious little spark of bravery and ever-growing desire, she grips his waistband, and tugs his pajama pants down his hips.  Again, he shifts to help her get them off, visibly struggling to do nothing more.

She has a theoretical understanding of the male body, and she felt him inside of her last night, but her breath still catches in her throat when she sees him for the first time.  And as thrilling and exciting as it is to see him completely bare for the first time, the reality of it, knowing that this is her husband sitting in front of her, letting her do this, hers to look at and enjoy, is more erotic than the sight itself.

She is still new at this, though, still inexperienced and shy, and it takes her a few moments to work up her nerve.  She bides her time by rubbing his bad knee again, taking deep breaths and staring at him out of the corner of her eye.  His breathing is shallow as he waits, his clenched hands trembling, and something thrills inside of her to know that she did that, to know that she can inspire such raw, visceral desire in him.  It’s enough to give her the surge of courage she needs.  She sets her other hand on his good knee, and moves up his legs again as she slides to sit at the very edge of the coffee table.  The muscles beneath her hands are as tense and shaking just the tiniest bit, like his hands.

She starts with just the lightest brush of her fingertips against his shaft, and he sucks in a sharp breath as though she burned him.  She takes it as a good sign, and wraps her hand around him, squeezing just a little.

“ _Belle_!” he gasps, and suddenly he’s reaching for her, grabbing her arms and trying desperately to pull her into his lap, his resolve to let her lead shattered.  He pulls her insistently toward him, and she relents, curling up beside him instead of landing in his lap, her hand still wrapped around his length.  It does wonderful things to her ego to know that she can leave him completely undone with just a few touches, to know that he really meant it when he said he wanted her so desperately that he could barely control himself.  But this is her time, her turn, and she is determined to get to know her husband’s body, to give him pleasure, before she lets him return the favor.

His hands are still wrapped around her arms in a vice grip, still trying to pull her onto his lap or down onto the couch.  She ducks her head to nuzzle at his neck, kissing his racing pulse and straining tendons.  “Be patient, my husband,” she murmurs, then nips his earlobe.  “It’s my turn.”

He groans loudly, like a wounded and very frustrated animal, but with some obvious effort he releases her arms.  She releases him, and takes a good, long look at his body, from head to toe and back again, lingering to enjoy a few particularly appealing spots.  Thrilled and aroused and feeling wonderfully brave and bold, she straddles his lap, sitting back toward his knees so she has plenty of room to move her hands between them.

She wraps both hands around him this time, with a firm touch, and she could swear the sound that comes from his throat is more a _growl_ than anything else.  His hands grasp her thighs, his fingers digging hard into her flesh through the fabric of her pajamas, but he seems to want to steady and ground himself instead of take control of the situation.

Not quite sure how to begin, she simply runs her hands up and down his shaft with firm but gentle pressure.  Judging by the way his eyes roll back and his head falls against the back of the couch, it’s a pretty good way to start.  She continues with those easy strokes, not too fast, for a few minutes, getting to know his body.  She marvels at how hot he is in her hands, firm and solid against her fingertips.  She does her best to memorize the feel of every vein and ridge and the curve of the tip.  He seems to especially like when she touches the head of his shaft, so she changes her technique accordingly, sweeping her thumb over it with each stroke.

His breathing is ragged and harsh and makes his chest heave in the most erotic way.  She gives in to a sudden and overwhelming urge, and leans down to press her lips to his chest over and over again.  If she leaves her lips against his skin for a bit longer, she can feel his heartbeat racing beneath.  Remembering his reaction from last night, she lowers her head further, and flicks her tongue against one nipple.  He lets out a strangled grunt at the sensation, so Izzy gently scrapes her teeth against the bud, like he did to her, before moving to the other one.  One of his hands leaves her leg to clutch her arm instead, clinging for dear life, and she is quite sure he’s not the slightest bit aware of it.  She wonders just how hard he has to work to keep from simply throwing her down on the couch and taking her hard and fast.

His hips start to rock beneath her, as much as they can with her sitting on his legs.  Izzy is no expert but she thinks that means he’s close.  His eyes are still shut tight in a look of utter desperation and need, and she presses her lips against his in a fierce kiss.  If he can’t do anything to her body at the moment, he seems determined to plunder her mouth like he’ll never get the chance again.  His tongue fights against hers, seeking out every inch of her, but she doesn’t let him gain the upper hand – it’s still her turn to dominate and offer pleasure.  She increases the speed of her strokes and adds a little twist on the downstroke to prove her point.

His hands soon leave her hips in favor of caressing every inch of her he can reach.  His hands run frantically over her arms, bury themselves in her hair, and slip under her shirt to touch her back and squeeze her breasts and flick her nipples.  His tongue makes its way into her mouth again, and she sucks on it mercilessly until his head falls back to the couch with a soft thud.

His face is screwed up tight in a cross between agony and ecstasy, and she has never seen him look so utterly overwhelmed.  He’s close, she’s sure of it now, and the very thought of doing that to him thrills her.  She grips him tighter and strokes faster, determined make it good for him.  He clenches his jaw as he lets out a fierce groan, and the tendons and muscles in his neck stand out sharply beneath his pale skin.  She remembers what he asked of her last night, how he all but begged her to sink her teeth into his neck and mark him as hers.  She leans forward and nips at one of the muscles, surer of herself than she was last time.

“ _Belle_!” he hisses out, strangled and desperate, and she does it again, harder this time.  She nips and bites and scrapes her teeth against the straining muscles in his neck, and trails her attentions down along his shoulder as his breathing becomes frantic.  He’s so close, his hands clinging onto her for dear life, making wonderfully erotic little grunts and gasps and groans, his hips wriggling beneath her as he tries to move with her.  Emboldened, she _bites_ down on his neck, as hard as she dares without hurting him, and sucks at his flesh.

With a sudden shout he comes, startling her as a warm, sticky fluid suddenly erupts over her fingers.  But she keeps going, guiding him through his orgasm with firm, steady strokes even as his seed continues to spill onto her hands.  As it ends, she releases his skin and drags her tongue over the spot to soothe it, infinitely pleased with herself at the dark red color the spot has taken on.  She slows her strokes gradually to bring him down gently, and soon his entire body goes limp beneath her, his hands falling to the couch beside him.  As he catches his breath, she looks down to see the white fluid covering her hands and him, and she feels a rather smug thrill that she was able to do that to him.

Finally his breathing evens out to soething close to normal, and he manages to open his eyes.  He stares at her like she’s from another world, shocked and amazed and utterly adoring, and that look makes her feel like a goddess or some sort of divine magical creature.  He looks grateful to have been graced with her presence, like he never wants to let her go ever again.  Izzy doesn’t think she’s ever felt so wonderful or so beloved in her entire life.  And it’s both thrilling and comforting to finally know him the way a wife should know her husband, to know every bit of him and be able to give him pleasure.

“Oh, _Belle_ ,” he murmurs, and catches her face in his hands, dragging her in for a long, sensual kiss.  He pulls away with a sigh, but when he opens his eyes, the predatory look has returned.  “My turn,” he rumbles, and before she knows what’s happened, she’s flat on her back on the couch, giggling as he all but tears her pajamas off.

Yes, Izzy thinks, marrying Mr. Gold was most definitely the right decision.


End file.
